


Pricks and Petals: A War of Thorns novella

by Balmyfables



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dream Sex, Dubious Consent, M/M, Semi-Public Sex, Siege of Lordaeron, War of Thorns, War of the Thorns | Burning of Teldrassil, because Valrion doesn't dream about the preplay consent talks, light dagger play, steamy romance novel, traitorously rescuing night elves
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-11-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 12:18:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15729261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Balmyfables/pseuds/Balmyfables
Summary: Muddled after the events of the World Tree, Valrion patrols the ramparts of Lordaeron before the siege.Set in the War of Thorns, the Battle for Azeroth pre-patch.This novella recounts Valrion's experiences in the War of Thorns. It is more angst than smut, because the Siege of Lordaeron and burning of Teldrassil prompted many unpleasant feelings (expect for the ones for Zappyboi, let's be real). Valrion is based off of my friend's toon. Enjoy!





	1. Before the Dawn

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Normally I prefer to write lighter smut, but I have all the feels about the Siege of Lordaeron.

 

_The demon hunter growled and lightly raked his teeth down the blood elf’s long, pale ears. Valrion mewled helplessly, struggling against the chains that held his wrists._

_“I’m looking for someone who can really soothe my inner demon,” Altruis murmured._

_“You were right,” Valrion gasped, arching his back away from the wooden X he was chained to just so his pants would pull more tightly against his agonizing erection._

_Altruis chuckled._

_“Right about what?” the demon hunter crooned._

_Valrion didn’t respond, only panting with his head hanging forward and his eyes closed as Altruis ran his claws delicately across his throat._

_“You could become one of us,” Altruis murmured, holding his dagger close to the blood elf’s face._

_Valrion imagined grabbing the dagger and plunging it into his eyes before Illidan and a pack of cheering demon hunters, all of them naked and wet and hard and celebrating his induction into their kin. His throbbing cock twitched and wept precum all over his silk pants._

_Altruis chuckled again, in that deep rumbling way that made Valrion’s chest ache, and slowly dragged the dagger tip over Valrion’s chest, slicing through his expensive robes so they fell away and revealed Valrion’s pink chest and silk pants, his constrained cock outlined against the damp cloth._

_“Are you sure you’re not part demon?” Altruis crooned, stroking Valrion’s chest and chuckling. Valrion struggled, unsure whether to nod or shake his head. “Mmm, do you want to be?”_

_“I want power to do what I cannot,” Valrion moaned as Altruis slowly sank to his knees._

_Altruis smirked, lifting an eyebrow, and leaned forward. He mouthed Valrion’s cock through his pants._

_Valrion cried out in relief and pleasure, pulsing his hips in need._

_He cried out again when Altruis let his fangs drag across his tip, teeth snagging against the cloth in fits and starts._

_“Oh. Oh,” Valrion whimpered, needing to vocalize but unsure what to say._

_“I think elves will come to the demon hunters in droves,” Altruis told the shuddering Valrion. “We take in those who lost everything.”_

_Valrion’s eyelids fluttered, visions of Teldrassil in flames dancing before his eyes._  

~

Valrion jerked awake when someone tapped his shoulder. The bright light of a torch blinded and confused him, and he cried out in surprise and fear. He blinked against the bleariness in his eyes, his heart pounding and his mind frantically searching for a way to sort out all the stimuli--the frantic need  rescue more Kal’dorei, the unfulfilled desire pulsing in his cock, and an unfriendly chuckle from above.

An orcish face came into view. At first he thought it was Ataka, but, no, this orc had pigtails and bright pink hair, and she wore an Orgrimmar tabard. Not Ataka, then.

She leered at him for a moment, and Valrion felt like a bug pinned to the wall. Then her eyes slid towards the pallet, and the exhausted sentry jabbed her thumb over her shoulder towards the wall with a grunt. _Ah. My turn_ , Valrion thought, rubbing his fist against his eyes and yawning hugely. The grunt stumbled past him and collapsed in a heap, already snoring before she hit the ground.

Valrion distracted himself from troubling thoughts by adjusting his robes from where they had gotten twisted around the middle, rolling his shoulders and buckling on his belt, and fought back a yawn as he clambered up the stairs to the ramparts.

The night was inky, and aside from the clanking of armor, which was commonplace in any Horde encampment, the night was relatively quiet. Valrion gazed off the wall towards the Alliance encampment, outlined by the torches at their frontline. Despite his sharp ears, he could hear nothing from the enemy lines.

The stress in the air was palpable. Soldiers greeted each other curtly as the guard was changed, and Champions strode about, confident or out of place, and Valrion wasn’t sure if their presence made the grunts more or less nervous.

Valrion was making his rounds when he heard someone moaning. He shuffled towards the sound, opening up his healing pouch and thumbing through his healing potions and bandages, wondering if the poor soul had gotten an arrow to the shoulder. It wasn’t an uncommon injury for sentries on the ramparts, since they spent so much time peeking out from behind the stone to see the enemy lines. But if the injured was a forsaken, Valrion wasn’t sure what he would do. He didn’t think the undead felt pain, either, or at least he had never heard one moan like this when they were hurt. These groans sounded fleshy.

Valrion rounded the bend to where the brazier burned, and stopped. On the other side of the fire a young troll was leaning up against the ramparts, his arms held behind him in an attempt to hold himself steady. His mask was pushed up to the top of his head, red mohawk sticking out in tufts, and he turned his contorted face towards Valrion. His eyes sparkled in the firelight, pupils wide and the orange iris glinting in the firelight, eyebrows knitted up as if in worry and mouth open, moans pouring out unbidden.

It was _the_ troll, the smooth-skinned, pink-haired troll from The Broken Tusk inn. Valrion did a quick once-over, looking for any arrows or other wounds. He noted the way the troll’s hips rocked back and forth, and the suspicious way his skirt was hiked up and pulled forward. He even heard godforsaken feminine moans emanating from that skirt. Valrion met the troll’s imploring gaze once more, gave a curt nod, spun on his heel and beat a quick retreat.

Valrion stomped around the ramparts, continuing his circuit. He only realized he was muttering when he turned a corner and came across another set of guards, and he snapped his mouth shut and turned red all the way to his ear tips.

“Nothin’ to report,” the undead guard drawled lazily, leaning on her battle axe and looking at the Alliance encampment. “They’re sleeping like babes.”

“Mmm,” the Tauren agreed, fiddling with his totem. Valrion could not believe how huge these Highmountain Tauren were. They were incredible. One of the shaman’s totems was bigger than Valrion, and they were just his chest piece!

“The calm before the storm,” Valrion agreed. “No activity anywhere on the wall.” The undead lady looked at him blankly, nibbling on her finger. “Oh. Um. Thank you for the report.” He figured the dead enjoyed little pleasantries as much as the living...right?

“Did you come to relieve me?” the Forsaken asked, turning hungry golden eyes towards Valrion.

“N-no,” Valrion replied, quickly hurrying around the pair. “I am making the rounds.” He did not want to get stuck here with a Highmountain Tauren, even if they were incredibly stoic. Their massive racks intimidated him.

Valrion hurried down the ramparts, but then realized his problem- if he kept going around, he would get back to the troll shaman and his tart.

Maybe he should have stayed with the corpse and the bull.


	2. Memories of Flame: Burning of Teldrassil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Valrion isn't a very good fire mage, 'cause that pyre doesn't make him horny.
> 
> I can have both Horde and Alliance quests, yes/yes?

Valrion stared into the horizon. Dawn was edging silver over the mountains, but Valrion wasn’t seeing that.

He was seeing flames.

A week ago, Valrion was in Duskwood, in a village he didn’t know but had flown over a few times in his attempts to get to the world tree. (It was an oft attempted but rarely talked about endeavor for many young members of the Horde. Valrion hadn’t gone on a dare-- it was a fucking huge tree, who _wouldn’t_ want to climb it?--though he knew several of his friends had. He had even betted against Than’diel, back when Than’diel was young and hot headed and alive. Than’diel still wouldn’t let him live it down.)

After hearing about the massacre on Astranaar, Valrion couldn’t stay away from the fighting any more, but damned if he aided in the slaughter. He was busy capturing any alliance citizen he could find, hustling them out of harm’s way and letting the Horde soldiers deal with the sentinels who fought back.

Then he heard the horns.

He was holding a struggling Alliance citizen by her wrists. He wished that Thalassian wasn’t such a departure from Darnassian, so he could tell her he was rescuing her. Or perhaps the lady understood and was just being a bitch. Regardless, the sound of Horde war horns subdued her struggles.

“What’s happening?” he shouted at an Orcish peon who ran by.

“New orders! We’re burning the tree!” the grunt yawped, grinning wickedly.

“What?” Valrion panted, his grip on the Kal’dorei’s bonds going slack. She yanked her wrists from his grasp and elbowed him in the gut, and before he could collect himself and yell at her to stop, she had a belly full of daggers and was falling to the ground, a trollish rogue yodeling her victory cry as she ran through the village on a battle high, spit foaming from her mouth and eyes rolling as she went berserk.

Valrion cursed under his breath, snapping his fingers to call his mount. The carpet shimmered into existence at his feet, and it started moving as soon as he leapt on. It wasn’t hard to see where the battle was-- he just followed the trail of bodies down the beach.

He spotted Sylvanus in the distance and felt his gut clench. Saurfang and a champion stood behind her. The Orgrimmar grunts were chanting battle cries as they piled into rowboats, spit flying and eyes wild.

“Fuck. Fucking fuck fuck,” Valrion hissed, speeding towards the boats, pouring mana into his carpet to urge it faster.

He could fly to the base of the tree. Barely. If he left from a particular boulder and angled just right.

But there was no time, and he couldn’t afford a mistake.

He swooped low to the beach, hoping he didn’t bowl anyone over in his descent, and when he was close enough to the ground he leapt from his carpet. His boots skidded across the sand, sliding several meters before he could catch his balance and barrel towards the closest barge.

“Let me on! I’m a fire mage!” he bellowed, and the grunts paused just long enough for him to vault over the edge of the boat before they pushed it off the beach.

He did his best to ignore the blood-thirsty talk of the soldiers around him, and concentrated on forming a plan.

<Menna,> he whispered, concentrating on his link to his sister. <Where are you?>

<Azsuna, you prick,> she replied, sounding strained. <Smashing- fucking- demon heads… Hang on.>

There weren’t many demons left, but Menna has joined a band of demon hunters and interested others in eradicating the few that still haunted the Broken Shore. Valrion waited, listening to her strained grunts and thoughts, until she finished fighting whatever it was she was fighting and turned her attention to him. <What does my pest of a brother want now, at the most inopportune time possible?> she whispered to him, and he felt her snide smile.

He felt hollow. <Get to Dalaran. Refugees will be flooding there in about ten minutes.>

<What? What are you talking about?>

<They are burning the World Tree,> Valrion thought with a sickness in his stomach. His eyes strayed towards Mount Hyjal, and the massive tree there.

What was it with people and burning trees?

<Fuck,> Menna finally replied. Then the floodgates opened. <Don’t do anything stupid, Valrion. Do you hear me? Don’t get yourself killed for good. I know you are a bleeding heart for->

<You can smack me later. It’ll mean I’m alive,> Valrion replied curtly.

<What?!> She exploded, but Valrion cut her off, closing out his mind to the whispered thoughts. She was still talking to him, of course, but he wasn’t listening, letting her voice fall into the back chatter as he returned his attention to the vessel around him, and the grunts all lighting their torches and roaring mindless hostility at the World Tree.

They were halfway there. Valrion looked up at Teldrassil. And up. And up.

The tree was glorious, and massive, and so beautiful it brought tears to Valrion’s eyes.

They had defeated the Burning Legion. Why were the people of Azeroth tearing themselves apart?

“Hey,” a gruff voice said from behind Valrion, and someone shoved his shoulder. Valrion leaned with the shove, turning his head and hissing. “What is the toothpick doing here? I ain’t getting paid to babysit.”

“I am a fire mage,” Valrion spat, rolling his eyes at the Orc. “I wouldn’t miss a chance at making the biggest bonfire.” He felt his bile rise with the lie.

The Orc leered. “Night elf kabobs tonight, eh?” he snarled, and Valrion knew the threat had passed.

He snarled back, hoping it came off as a grin. He wouldn’t mind a quest to kill a few Orcs right now.

Maybe he would visit Outlands after this.

They were three fourths of the way there.

“Listen up!” an orc yelled from the prow, and all of the soldiers turned towards the grizzled commander. “We take out the sentinels first! Then you can choose to stay at the base and start fires there, or those who want can use the portal to teleport to the top of the tree and kill more moonies, but it’s your own fucking responsibility to get back through the portal and back on the boat before the tree is fully in flames. Got it?”

There was a roar from the other orcs on the boat that nearly deafened Valrion. He squinted, just barely resisting covering his ears to protect himself from the blast of sound, and then the orcs started leaping from the sides of the boat.

Arrows rained down, but there were too many targets and not enough sentinels. Darnassus must be stretched thin from the other fighting on Darkshore, Valrion thought. And who would have thought the Horde would be sent in boats to burn down the World Tree?

The fire mage hung back, taking up an abandoned oar and rowing the boat closer with a few other grunts who knew the value of a good escape vessel. He watched all of the sentinels engage with the war party, and then grunts start charging into the portal. The boat was nearly ashore, and he grabbed a rope tied to the helm and leapt into the waves, running forward to tether the vessel to shore.

Grunts were trying to light the tree on fire, but the bark was too thick. He saw a few fire mages blasting the trunk with much more success, and inwardly cursed his fellows in arcane. But more and more decided that avoiding the fight above was not as important as getting a good fire, and he slid into the line of soldiers charging through the portal.

Darnassus was chaotic. Sentinels engaged with Orgrimmar grunts all throughout the city, but the fires had started and the Sentinels faced the damning choice between fighting the Horde or putting out the fires of their home.

It was easy for Valrion to slip aside and find a fallen sentinel.

He pried off the night elf’s armor, cursing how _big_ night elf men were. He quickly gave up on the grieves, settling on the cape and hood. He stuffed his ears inside the hood and pulled his scarf over his face. He pulled the sentinels gloves over his own, and hoped he had covered enough of his pale flesh that the Kal’dorei wouldn’t notice and shoot him.

Then he summoned his carpet and flew above the branches the grunts were setting on fire.

He didn’t know how to shout out “Over here!” in Darnassian, but he shouted and grunted in theatrical effort of holding open a portal, and hoped a big portal to a place not burning would be enough of a beacon to the fleeing civilians. And that the glowing of the portal would draw their attention away from the green glow of his eyes.

The Kal’dorei came running.

A big purple man lumbered to a halt in front of the portal and shot rapidfire Darnassian at Valrion. Valrion just closed his eyes and tensed, hoping it looked like holding the portal open was a strain, and when he opened his eyes the man was gone and more civilians were running into his portal.

A bullet spun by his ear, and he looked up to see a goblin hunter shooting at him. He dropped the portal and ran.

Once he was out of range (and the goblin had found other elves to shoot at) he summoned his carpet and flew further, to the next small town outside of Darnassus.

“Here!” he shouted, before remembering he was speaking Thallassian, but his portal roared to life and the night elves took the rescue that came to them.

There were hundreds of them. The smoke was rising. The night elves were abuzz, news traveling fast, or people just putting two and two together.

Valrion just hoped the mages of Dalaran would take care of the terrified citizens he funneled through his portal. He could feel himself getting woozy, and he wasn’t sure if it was from holding the portal open for so long or all of the smoke he was inhaling despite the scarf. Smoke was thick in the air, trapped in the branches and getting thicker by the minute. Orange flames glowed in the distance, but all he could see of Darnassus was an orange haze.

He saw people collapsing from smoke poisoning and lack of oxygen.

He wavered as his knees buckled, and his vision started going blurry.

The last thing he did before falling unconscious was stumble through his own portal to Dalaran.


	3. Pruning the Rose: Siege of Lordaeron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the Siege continues to break my heart... and little cameos of our lovelies!

Valrion shook himself back to reality when a grunt clambered up the ladder behind him, making a lot of noise as Orgrimmar orcs were want to do. Valrion glanced disdainfully down at her, feeling his guts twist at the achingly familiar sight of verdant skin and vicious tusks. Behind her, Lordaeron’s forces were flexing themselves awake, a few grunts rushing through last minute preparations, most contingents shuffling restlessly. Valrion turned back towards the horizon, wrestling his stomach back down.

There was a silver sheen across the sky, harbinger of dawn and death.

Valrion sighed. Another violent day in Azeroth, the world that fought harder when she was stabbed by a dark titan and her beautiful tree was burned.

“Any movement?” the orc growled, coming to stand beside him.

Valrion’s eyes skipped across the campfires. “They’re waking, but no attack yet.”

The orc snorted disdainfully, and started sharpening her axe. She had probably been sharpening it all night.

Valrion found his toe tapping rapidly, and consciously stilled it. He had been here for three days, porting out the undead citizens of Lordaeron as Alliance forces rallied. Now, his primary orders were to burn any siege towers that broke through the ranks, and to keep himself out of sight of the arrows. His secondary purpose was to teleport people out in case of a retreat.

He didn’t disagree with the orders, but something about them rubbed him wrong.

But everything Sylvanus did got under his skin. This whole war made him livid. He just had to find a way to survive it, which meant not getting caught, not getting noticed.

Something in the fields between the two opposing forces caught his eye. A torch. Some coward with a death wish, making himself an easy target.

Was that an orc, out in the middle of no-man’s zone? Fighting with a troll?

Valrion huffed. Idiots. Let them get killed, the Horde didn’t need such incompetent rogues.

But something about them kept drawing his gaze.

The horn sounded as they raised the banner of the Horde. Valrion tensed, adrenaline dumping through him, ready to fight or flee.

“Are you supposed to be up here?” the orc asked him.

Valrion spared her a glance, grimacing a fierce smile back at her.

“Wouldn’t miss it,” he hissed, gripping the stones till his fingernails stung.

The two figures on the field were talking to each other. Valrion saw familiar pink hair and blue skin. The troll from yesterday?

“Incoming!” a panicked voice screamed, and a moment later the wall shook with an explosive impact. Valrion stumbled and grabbed the ramparts. When another projectile careened towards the wall, Valrion launched himself away and ran down the steps.

The battle was a mindless whirlwind of attacks. Alliance swarmed the walls, and Valrion stood at the back of the courtyard tossing missiles at any that breached the wall, and fireballs at the siege towers when they came into view.

Then the real slaughter began. Sylvanus threw herself in the fray, and her scream stung his ears and echoed long after it was gone. Forsaken kicked buckets off the wall, dumping noxious gas on their own people. Valrion felt like he was leaving his body, unable to believe what he was seeing, his conscious brain shutting off. There was too much to keep track of, so he stopped, and he floated away mentally as his body snapped through attacks reflexively.

Then came the retreat.

Baine’s voice echoed through the ruined castle like a great bell. Valrion’s head snapped up and he surged back into the present. The weight of it settled in Valrion’s stomach. Now was his time. He opened a portal to Orgrimmar and roared, mindless and feral, announcing his presence to the baffled crowd. But he wasn’t seeing the war-torn crowd in Lordaeron, he was seeing Teldrassil in flames. And he needed to get people out  _ now _ .


End file.
